Traffic Problems
by Halcris
Summary: Fairly routine investigations into transport firms suddenly involve C.I.5 in serious problems.


**Traffic Problems.**

Bodie and Doyle had a date !

Not unusual, you would have thought, for a couple of young men who believed in the old adage 'all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy', and did both activities with their very best effort.

But this was a date with each other.

Cowley, head of C.I.5, believed in keeping members of his force at all times 'on their toes', and so he insisted that every operative did practice at regular intervals at the warehouse firing-range. With some of the men, this had become a rather boring chore, but with Bodie and Doyle it was an excuse for a bit of healthy competition and friendly rivalry, to see who could produce the best score. And as they were so particularly well-matched, it was usually a very close finish, with only a point or two between them.

Today it was their turn. Bodie parked his car neatly, climbed out, and was almost knocked for six, as his partner whisked his Capri into the adjoining space.

"Watch it, mate !," he admonished. "Are you trying to sabotage me ?."

That brought a grin to Doyle's face, as he followed his team-mate into the building. They were met by the arms supervisor.

"Oh, not you two !," he greeted them with a mock grimace. "Waste of time sending you, - you don't need the practice."

But he'd already got everything set up for them. They began with automatic rifles, powerful and with a wide range, but a little more difficult to control when changed to single shot. By the end of the session their scores were very high and exactly equal.

"Hand guns to finish," said the supervisor, and signalled his men to set up the appropriate targets.

They started off together, each with his own target. By the end of the second section each had achieved a perfect score on their cards. So their last round would be the decider. They exchanged challenging looks, as the last cards were set up.

One or two of the assistants, who were impressed by the prowess of this special pair, had gathered together, keen to see the final outcome.

They took it in turns, shot for shot, and each one they fired made a neat hole in the centre of the card, keeping their scores totally level all the way.

It came to the last shot. It was Doyle's turn first, and his shot was the same as all the rest, - a neat hole bang in the middle.

Bodie took aim, determined to equal his mate's effort. But just as he was about to fire, one of the watchers behind them was hit with one of those convulsive sneezes that come without warning !

It was enough ! Bodie's shot hit the target all right, but not in the centre of the card. The hole was out towards the rim.

"I've won this time !," exclaimed Doyle gleefully, as he accepted the amused applause of the onlookers.

"I was distracted," complained Bodie bitterly as he followed his friend back to the car-park.

"Well, you shouldn't have been," retorted Doyle. "You let your concentration slip, and that could be dangerous."

They made their way back to Headquarters. Bodie was still grumbling, muttering his annoyance, as they parked their cars in the yard, again side by side, and made their way into the building.

Cowley, head of C.I.5, was pacing the floor of his office rather impatiently, waiting for his two best operatives, Bodie and Doyle, to report in.

When, a few minutes later, they tapped at his door and entered, he snapped at them rather brusquely. "You're late !," he accused.

Considering where they had been, they weren't, but Doyle had learnt over the years not to rise to his boss's unjustified crossness, and didn't reply as Cowley continued. "I want all you've got on those two haulage firms we suspect of bringing in illegal immigrants," he said fiercely.

"All here," responded Doyle calmly, indicating the folder he was carrying.

Somewhat mollified, Cowley regretted his harshness. I really ought to give this pair more credit, he thought. They are actually quite efficient, and getting used to my way of working. He took the folder from Doyle, waved the pair to seats, and started to look at the neatly typed notes.

Doyle began to clarify what was written there. "The first group, Brandon Enterprises," he said, "They run six lorries, large ones, and make regular trips to Europe. They mainly bring back the same type of load each time, - machine parts, some food items, and clothing. They have regular checks at Customs, and there's never been anything irregular reported. Five of the lorries follow the same pattern, week in, week out, but the sixth does deviate occasionally, so we're keeping a watch on that one."

Cowley nodded acknowledgement. That seemed very comprehensive.

Bodie took over the commentary. "The other firm, Sylvester & Co. are bigger and more complex," he began. "There isn't anyone called Sylvester any longer. There are site managers, but it's proving rather difficult to find who actually owns the business. We're working on that."

He reached forward and took a page from the folder lying open in front of Cowley, needing to verify his facts. "They have two big warehouses. One's in Liverpool, and I haven't many details on that yet. But the other's in Ealing, and I have learned a bit about that. They have ten vehicles in all, in various weights, and hire them out for a wide variety of jobs. Indeed they even do some for the film studios at Ealing, moving stuff out to locations for them. And their three biggest lorries do go frequently to the continent."

He paused to check his notes and continued, "There's no regular pattern to any of their jobs. I've got some good people working on it, listing the jobs they do, and who pays for them, but it's a bit time-consuming. I've also got a watch on the warehouse."

Cowley nodded approvingly. It seemed as if the situation was being well handled.

Doyle took up the report. "That sixth lorry of Brandon's, sir," he said. "It's in France at the moment, but it's scheduled to be back at its base on Friday afternoon. So I've drawn up a plan for a reception to be waiting for them. The details are there, sir, if you care to check them over."

Cowley found the relevant notes and studied them. "That looks good," he said at last, and gave his approval. "Right, go ahead with that, and report what you find."

Ike Brandon, sitting in his office above the warehouse, glanced at his watch. Ten to three, time to go down and open up the big doors. His lorry coming in from France was almost due. He smiled to himself. It was carrying a secret, highly valuable cargo this time, - illegal immigrants !

Poor dolts, he thought dis-passionately. They pay all the money they possess for passage to this country, hoping for a better life here. And where do they end up ? Probably slaving away in some dubious back-street sweatshop in London.

Not that I give a damn, he thought callously. Now that I've been paid, I couldn't care less what happens to them.

He picked a bunch of keys off a hook on the wall, and went down the stairs from the office, to unlock and roll back the huge sliding doors of the warehouse. Little did he know that that lock had been skilfully picked half-an-hour earlier, the doors eased slightly open and then closed again. And that now his warehouse held several more hidden watchers than the customary mice and rats that lurked in the shadowy corners.

Opening the doors a few yards, he waited some minutes till he spotted the lorry turning into the top of the lane that led down to the forecourt. Then he eased the doors fully open. He stood to one side as the heavy lorry rumbled past him, then pushed back the doors that closed easily on their well-oiled runners, and re-locked them.

He turned to watch the large vehicle as it very slowly and cautiously backed up to the down-loading platform, a manoeuvre which brought the waiting fork-lift truck onto the same level as the lorry floor. Wells did it perfectly, as usual. Well, he ought to be good at it, he's done it enough times, thought Brandon.

Wells switched off the powerful engine, climbed down from his cab, handed Brandon a slip of paper, and moved round to the back of his vehicle, to be joined by his mate who had descended from the passenger side. He unlocked the heavy duty padlock, and together, one each side, they swung back the doors to reveal stacked wooden crates.

But as if this action had been a signal, he was astonished to find they were no longer alone !

Half-a- dozen men had emerged from the surrounding shadows, led by a curly-haired chap in jeans and a leather jacket, who flashed an I.D. badge at Wells, barely giving him a chance to look at it.

"We've come to check your cargo," the curly-haired man announced.

"It's already been checked, at Dover," protested Wells.

"Well now it's being checked again," said Doyle firmly.

Brandon stepped forward, waving his piece of paper. "We've got clearance," he declared loudly. "Look, it's here – in writing !"

"Then you've nothing to worry about," replied Doyle equably. "Now, let's have some of these crates off to have a look."

He glanced round at his assembled men. "Anyone good with a fork-lift ?."

"I'll do it," volunteered a tall ginger-haired chap. "I used to do it all the time on my uncle's farm."

"Good man, Peters," said Doyle. "Take out that first lot of crates, please."

Peters set to with a will, and quite soon, nine crates which had been stacked three wide by three high, were unshipped and standing on the loading platform. Strong skilful hands soon had them open, only to find that they contained exactly what their labels said, machine parts in the bottom row, and various types of textiles in the lighter upper rows.

"Look," said Brandon, angrily, "They're exactly what they should be. I told you they'd been checked !." He waved his piece of paper furiously, almost in Doyle's face.

"So they've been checked again," replied Doyle hiding his disappointment. He'd hoped he'd find something controversial.

"Let's have the next lot out, Peters." He said.

Peters manoeuvred the fork-lift with considerable skill, and soon had the second lot of nine crates out. They were quickly examined, but also found to be in order.

"Told you so," snapped Brandon. "Why are you wasting your time, - and mine ?."

Although he hid it very well, Doyle was annoyed. He'd expected to find some sort of irregularity.

He jumped up on the platform, and walked into the now half-empty lorry. If he had been looking in Brandon's direction, he would have detected the look of apprehension, quickly concealed, that came over the man's face.

He walked up to the next lot of crates and read the labels, all the same as the two previous lots. It looked as if he would have to do some abject apologising. He turned to come out, and then he smelt it ! The unpleasant but unmistakeable odour of humanity, cooped up for too long, with no sanitary arrangements !

Excited, he called urgently to Peters. "Get in here, Peters, and get this next lot out."

As he moved out of the man's way, and came out of the space, Brandon saw his face, and the expression on it. He turned on his heel and bolted for the stairs back to his office, and the exit from there to the street behind. But the C.I.5 men were alert. Two of them converged on him before he reached the steps, and pulled him to a halt. They pushed him back towards the lorry.

Peters, meanwhile, had moved the top layer of crates. As he made his way in again, and started to shift the central box of the second layer, Doyle jumped back into the lorry beside him. He had requested and received a large torch, and as the fork-lift pulled out the central crate, he shone its light into the dark hole beyond.

It revealed several frightened faces !.

For the next little while the dusty warehouse was a hive of activity. It soon became very crowded, as police, immigration officials, and social workers were called in.

The last few crates had been shifted, and those hiding behind them had emerged, blinking in the light they hadn't seen for days. There were six of them, three men, two women, and a child. All were Asiatic in appearance, very cowed and frightened, and with very little English to answer all the questions fired at them.

Though pleased now with his success, Doyle felt real sympathy for them.

So it was a while before Doyle realised that he hadn't conferred with his team-mate for some time. Bodie had been supervising the examination of the crates, while he had been directing Peters and the fork-lift. He looked around but couldn't spot him.

Doyle turned to some of his men standing nearby. "Have you seen Bodie ?," he asked.

"I think he went with the police inspector, up to Brandon's office, to look at his paper-work," volunteered one of them helpfully.

"Thanks," said Doyle and went off in that direction. He hopped nimbly up the steps, feeling quite satisfied with the day's work, and entered the office. There were several men in the room, turning out drawers, and examining papers in the filing cabinets, but Bodie wasn't one of them.

Doyle approached a police officer who knew them both slightly. "I'm looking for Bodie," he said.

"Oh, he was here," the man replied, "But he got a call on his radio-phone, and left. Probably looking for somewhere quieter to take it."

Doyle went back down the stairs, and searched round the quieter corners of the warehouse, but there was no sign of his mate. He turned back to the main area, a little bemused.

"Were you looking for Bodie, sir ?," said one of his men hurrying up to him.

"Yes, I am," replied Doyle.

"I saw him talking on his radio-phone," said the man. "He did look your way, but you were busy with that immigration officer. Then he left, sir. I saw him drive off."

Doyle was puzzled. Bodie normally would have told him where he was going. But then, he reflected, things had been a bit chaotic for a while.

"I don't suppose you know who was calling him ?," he asked the man, who shook his head. By this time several of the other C.I. 5 men had gathered round.

"I did hear one word," volunteered the man. "I'm sure he said 'dealing'. Is he on some drugs investigation ?."

"Dealing," exclaimed Peters. "Could it have been 'Ealing' ? We've been keeping a watch on another transport firm there. I was on 'obbo' there yesterday, and I think Willis is on today."

Doyle took that thought on board. Perhaps Willis had called to report something he'd seen.

"Ah, well," he said, "We're finished here, we've done what we came to do, so pack up now and get back to base. By the time I've made my report I expect Bodie will have called in."

But when he'd finished the long and detailed report to Cowley, he suddenly realised that it hadn't happened. At least, Bodie hadn't called him.

He went down to the switchboard room to check, but found there that his partner hadn't called in at all. Odd, thought Doyle. That wasn't like Bodie who usually kept base informed of what he was doing.

He got the operator on duty to call Bodie. She tried several times but got no response.

"Try Willis," suggested Doyle, "I think he went to meet him." But her attempts to raise Willis resulted in similar failure.

Beginning to be a bit concerned, Doyle went back to Cowley's office, and quickly told him about it.

"Can I go and have a look at the Ealing place," asked Doyle.

"Yes," agreed Cowley, "But take some back-up with you," he ordered firmly.

So it was a full car, including Peters, chosen because he knew exactly where to go, that pulled up fairly close to the Sylvester & co. warehouse in Ealing. Peters led them through a bit of waste land, knee-high in grass and weeds, to a vantage point where they had a good view of the warehouse and the yard in front of it. The large doors were closed, and there seemed to be no activity. It was now evening, so presumably most of the staff had knocked off, though transport firms don't keep precisely 'nine to five' hours. But there were no lights anywhere, and no cars parked in the yard.

"Willis should be here," said Peters, looking puzzled. Then his face cleared. "Maybe he called Bodie, who came over, and when he saw the place was deserted, told him to stand down," he suggested.

Doyle considered this, then raised an objection. "But if it was like that," he said, "Why aren't either of them answering their phones ?."

Peters face fell again, as he saw the logic of that. Then he had an idea. He waved an arm, pointing to the left. "I know where Willis usually parks," he said, "Down a side street over there. I'll go and look, shall I ?."

Doyle nodded and the eager young man shot off. He wasn't long, and came running back, looking worried. "The car's still there, sir," he reported.

"Then where the heck is Willis ?," queried Doyle.

"Was Bodie's car there ?," he asked.

"No," said Peters instantly, "but then I don't know where he usually parks."

Doyle considered the situation. The men were looking to him for orders. At last he made a decision. "I think we'd better have a look at that warehouse," he said. "Everyone back to the car. I think we can risk driving into the yard, and I need to call in to base, and pick up a torch, - we might need one".

A few minutes later saw the four men approaching the warehouse doors. The large padlock proved no deterrent, and the door was cautiously eased open to admit them. The torch that Doyle had collected was immediately needed as the interior was in complete darkness.

Leading the way, he swung the powerful beam round the space. It was almost empty. It looked as if the place had been abandoned. Towards the far end there was one small lorry standing, but as they neared it, and Doyle pointed the torch beam at it, they could see why it had been left. One front wheel, minus its tyre, was propped up on a pile of bricks, and the wing above it was severely damaged.

Doyle turned away, motioning to the others to spread out. But as he did so, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something beyond the derelict vehicle. He moved back a few paces, and directed the torch beam. His sudden yell brought the others hurrying back, to gaze, as he was doing, at the car neatly parked beyond the lorry _ Bodie's car !

Doyle moved forward, and tried the handle on the driver's side. It was locked. He shone the light into the interior, and noticed immediately the radio-phone lying on the passenger seat. No wonder they hadn't got a reply earlier.

Peters, using his considerable intelligence, had gone back towards the meagre outside light filtering through the partly-open doors. He began feeling along the nearby wall, and soon found what he was looking for. He flicked on the switch, and sudden light filled the huge space.

"Good man," said Doyle, thinking to himself that he must keep an eye on this youngster – he was showing real potential.

But the illumination did little to help them, beyond showing them that the place seemed to have been stripped bare. It did enable them to spot the stairs that led to the upper floors, - offices and storage rooms, no doubt.

"Detailed search," ordered Doyle firmly. "Every nook and cranny !"

The men spread out to follow his orders. There was nothing on the ground floor, so they followed him up the stairs which led to a corridor the length of the building, with lots of doors off it.

Doyle looked into the first room. It was an office which looked as if it would have held all the usual equipment, but with only trailing wires to suggest where a missing computer had once stood. The copier, an older model, was still there. But everywhere else showed signs of a complete clear-out. There were empty drawers and cupboards, and the filing-cabinets had been ransacked.

"Looks as if they've done a bunk, sir," commented one of the men who had followed him in.

"Certainly looks that way, Anson," agreed Doyle, and followed him out into the corridor, where the other two were moving along, opening each door as they went.

Fowler, the fourth member of the party, was furthest along. He opened a door, peered in and let out a yell. "Here, sir," he called, and dived through the doorway. The others ran rapidly along the corridor, and followed him into the room, where they found him kneeling beside a form lying on the floor.

"It's Willis, sir," said Forbes, rather unnecessarily for they could all see that, just as they all could see that the man was in a very bad way, lying in a pool of blood.

"Is he dead, sir ?," whispered Peters, as Doyle pressed sensitive fingers, trying to find the pulse in the man's neck. To disprove the question, Willis gave a low moan, and slowly opened his eyes. He focussed on the face bending nearest him, Doyle, and tried to speak.

"Sylvester," he murmured. "Bodie. North," was all he could manage before his eyes closed again.

Doyle issued rapid orders. "Fowler, get downstairs and get those doors wide open. I'll call an ambulance. When it comes, go with it, and stay with Willis in case he says any more."

Fowler nodded and left the room at a run, as Doyle thumbed his phone. "Anson, check that last room." He also shot off, obeying instantly.

Doyle fished in the pockets of the unconscious man, and found what he was seeking. He handed the bunch of keys to Peters.

"Peters," he ordered, "Pick up Willis's car, follow the ambulance, and report from the hospital."

"Yes, sir," replied Peters instantly, and left with just a last glance at the man lying on the floor. They had been becoming friends, but he was almost sure he had lost him now.

Left alone with the injured man, Doyle's thoughts were in a turmoil. Experience told him that Willis was in a bad way. So what state was Bodie in ?

Where was he ?.

Anson came back then to report that the last room was empty.

"Have we searched everywhere ?," asked Doyle, trying to stifle the fear that there might be another body lying somewhere.

"Yes, sir," said Anson, "but I'll go round again, just to be sure."

Doyle nodded, and the man hurried off. He thumbed the phone again, got through to his boss, and gave him a detailed description of all that had happened.

"You've called an ambulance," asked Cowley.

"Of course," replied Doyle, "First thing I did. Willis doesn't look good, sir," he added worriedly.

"They'll do what they can," said Cowley brusquely. He wasn't as hard and uncaring as he sounded, but he'd learned over the years to hide his feelings and get on with the job.

"I'll send you some back-up," he went on, "To examine what papers are left, and to search the area. And to collect Bodie's car, for forensics to have a look at."

He hesitated, trying to choose his words carefully, knowing how strong the friendship was between his two best men. "Any ideas about Bodie ?," he asked carefully.

"Not yet, sir," replied Doyle sombrely "Except that his car's here, - and he isn't !"

Noting the tired note in his man's voice, Cowley issued a direct firm order. "You can't do any more tonight," he said. "You've already had a busy day. Go home and get some rest, and be in early tomorrow."

"You'll let me know if any news comes in ?," asked Doyle anxiously.

"Of course," said Cowley at once.

Doyle went wearily to the car, collecting Anson on the way. He dropped him at his home, and then went on to his own flat. He was feeling very low. The mild euphoria of successfully putting an end to Brandon's evil trade, had dissipated now, as he worried over what could have happened to his mate. But Cowley was right. He couldn't do any more tonight, and he needed some rest if he was to function at peak form tomorrow.

Back-up teams would be already taking over, and the warehouse, Bodie's car, and the surrounding area, would be subject to the most meticulous search and examination. Forbes and Peters would be relieved of duty too, but someone would be staying close to Willis, in case he might import more information.

Because he knew he ought to, he had an easing shower, made himself a light meal, and retired to bed. He had thought that he wouldn't sleep, as he lay pondering over all he knew about what his friend had been doing, but natural fatigue took over. He was surprised to find, as he stirred and surfaced, that he had had several restorative hours.

He got up quickly and made ready to go into work. Physically, he felt much better again, but the rest, good as it was, hadn't given him any answers to his concern about Bodie. As he ate a quick breakfast, he switched on his radio. The news was totally concerned with a dreadful road accident on the M.1. Apparently there had been thick fog in the Midlands, and a serious pile-up had occurred near Leicester. It sounded very bad, two lorries, a coach, and several cars had been involved, plus many minor shunts as traffic continued to pile in, worsening an already bad situation. There had been at least six fatalities, and dozens injured, some very seriously.

Doyle turned it off quickly. He had enough to think about without worrying about something half the country away. But why did people behave so badly when there was fog like that ? He'd heard it so often during his time in the police force. So many drivers, in such a hurry, that they wouldn't reduce their speed, to allow for the conditions.

He pulled into the yard, and parked his car. Glancing along the row of vehicles he spotted Cowley's motor. So his boss was already in. Perhaps there was some news. He hurried up the stairs and tapped on the door of Cowley's office. As he entered, Cowley looked up from the papers he'd been studying, and met the questioning look in his man's eyes.

"Sorry, Doyle. No news yet," he said, and watched the hopeful look fade from the expressive face.

"Anything from Willis ?," asked Doyle.

Cowley turned away, his face clouding. "I'm afraid he didn't make it – never came round," he said quietly.

Doyle nodded. He'd been fearing that, since the first moment he'd found the man.

"What exactly did he say to you," asked Cowley.

"Just three words," replied Doyle. "Sylvester, Bodie and North."

He'd been thinking about that as he was driving in. Three words. The first two were names. Was the third another name ? Or was it a direction ? North where ? North London ?

He refocused his wandering mind on what Cowley was saying.

"It looks as if they've pulled out of the Ealing warehouse totally," he said. "Peters reported that there were several lorries and vans there the day he was watching, but they've all gone now, barring the wrecked one, of course. There were a few scattered papers that looked as if they'd been dropped by someone in a hurry, but they didn't reveal anything interesting."

He looked up from the reports he'd been reading. "Where did Bodie say their other warehouse was ?"

"Liverpool," replied Doyle, remembering Bodie's detailed report.

Then suddenly an idea flashed into his mind. "Liverpool !," he exclaimed. "That's North, if you like ! Perhaps they've gone up there."

Then he remembered something else. Cowley, who was looking at him, saw the sudden shock on his man's face. "Sir," he said urgently, "That dreadful pile-up on the M.1 ! If they were preparing to leave about the time Bodie got that call from Willis, and were making for Liverpool, that's just about where they'd be."

His voice shook a little, as he added, "If they were involved, and had Bodie with them ….."

Cowley looked at the set face of the man in front of him. He didn't waste time in protesting about co-incidences. He didn't believe in them anyway. But he did have a lot of belief and trust in this man. He also believed in the power of hunches, and Doyle had had quite a few successful ones. Besides he knew this man too well. Now that he'd got this idea in his head he wouldn't rest until he'd proved or dis-proved it.

If he didn't give his permission for him to go and investigate, he would most likely defy him and go anyway, such was his rapport with his team-mate. So there was only one answer.

"Right," said Cowley decisively. "Go and find out. Take Murphy with you. He's already in."

Doyle didn't need telling twice, and shot out of the room to make his arrangements. He was pleased that Cowley had said to take Murphy. He was a friend to both him and Bodie, and he would be glad of the company. He found Murphy in the duty-room, and quickly brought him up to date on what he was thinking. Seeing his friend's determined face, Murphy didn't bother to protest that it was a long shot. He too trusted Doyle's instinct, which had often been right in the past. He got up at once and grabbed his jacket from the peg.

"You go and get us a suitable car from the pool," he said, "and I'll go to the canteen, for a flask of coffee and some sandwiches."

It wasn't long before the pair were speeding north, having made the right connections onto the M.1. Fortunately the weather had cleared and they were making good time. As they got nearer the scene of the accident, they saw advance signs, warning motorists of delays up ahead, and lane closures. So there was obviously a lot of clearing-up work still going on.

But that didn't affect them, for they left the motorway before they reached the site, having decided to go straight to Leicester Police Headquarters, and start their enquiries there. So some little time later, they pulled into the yard there, and found a space labelled VISITORS PARKING.

A young constable, who had been standing on the steps by the front entrance, jumped nimbly down and came towards them. He tapped on the driver's side window, and Doyle wound it down. Much to his surprise, the young man addressed him by name.

"Mr. Doyle, sir ?," he asked, and Doyle nodded.

"Would you like to follow me, sir," the constable went on, "Inspector Dalton is expecting you."

Doyle turned to Murphy with a puzzled expression.

"Cowley, said Murphy, answering the unspoken question. "He's paving our way."

Indeed he was right. Cowley had been on the phone very quickly after he'd seen them set off, passing on the registration number of the car they'd chosen, and enough information to ensure that his men received full co-operation.

"Really ? Well, good for him," said Doyle somewhat surprised.

"Well," said Murphy with a smile, "He's learned over the years that your instincts are very often correct."

They climbed out of the car, and followed the constable, who led them up to an office on the second floor. As they entered an active-looking man in uniform got up from behind the desk and greeted them pleasantly, introducing himself as Inspector Dalton. He dismissed the constable, after a polite enquiry as to whether his guests would like refreshments. They declined as it wasn't long since they'd taken a break, using their own supplies.

He waved them to seats in front of his desk, and got straight to the point. "I understand, gentlemen," he began, "that you are making enquiries about last night's accident. What do you want to know ?"

"Mainly about the casualties, and their identities," replied Doyle.

"I can give you numbers," said the Inspector, "but I don't think we have, as yet, all the names. It was a right mess. I've never known a worse scenario."

He reached for a folder on his desk and opened it." "Six fatalities," he read, "but only three of them identified so far. And a long list of injuries, some serious. We do have names for most of those."

He looked up from his lists, and scanned the faces of the two men listening to him. "Forgive my curiosity, gentlemen," he said, "But just why is C.I.5 taking an interest ?"

Murphy answered him. "A group we were after left London, making for Liverpool, several vans, cars and lorries, it's a transport firm," he explained. "We suspect they could have been caught up in the accident, and we think one of our operatives was with them."

"His name ?," asked Dalton, quick on the uptake.

"Bodie," replied Murphy. Dalton swept his eyes down the lists.

"Not here, anyway," he said.

"Any trade names on the vehicles ?," asked Doyle suddenly.

The inspector looked surprised at the question, but referred to his notes. "Yes," he said, "One of the lorries, and one of the vans had Sylvester & Co. logos on the sides."

"That's the ones we were after," said Doyle quietly, not at all happy to have his fears confirmed.

Dalton looked at the two concerned faces before him, and understood why they were there. "You'll want to check at the morgue and the hospital," he said.

"If you could give us directions," suggested Murphy, "Maybe a map ?."

"I'll do better than that," said Dalton briskly. "I'll lay on a car, and a driver who knows his way around." It didn't take him long to do just that. In a few minutes the pair were in the back of a police-car, and the young man who had met them was at the wheel.

"Where to first, sir ?," he asked Doyle deferentially.

"The mortuary," replied Doyle grimly.

Murphy glanced at his friend. He had been unusually silent for the last little while. He knew why, though. He was afraid of what he might find.

The young driver whisked them expertly through the one-way system, and pulled up before the grim-looking building. They got out of the car and entered the dismal place.

Dalton had taken a leaf out of Cowley's book, and had made a phone call. So they were met by a dapper little man in a white coat.

I understand what you are looking for, gentlemen," he said. "This way, please." He led them into the room with its wall of labelled drawers. He consulted his list, muttering to himself.

"Those three have been identified," he said, "and that's a woman. So it leaves only these two."

He approached the wall and eased out the first long drawer. The watchers knew instantly that this corpse was too small to be Bodie, and the revealed ginger hair confirmed it,

"No," said Murphy instantly.

The man pushed that drawer back in and drew out another. This time the shape and build was right. With some trepidation, Doyle reached out his hand to turn back the cloth. Relief flooded through him. This was not the face he'd feared to see ! He replaced the cover.

"Just a minute," said Murphy. "Let me have another look."

Doyle looked at him with some surprise.

"Yes," said Murphy, and explained. "Peters took some pictures at the yard and asked me to run them through Records. That's Sam Stedman, one of the lorry drivers for Sylvester & Co."

They thanked the man and left, with very conflicting thoughts in their minds. They now had double confirmation that some of the vehicles they were after had been involved in the accident. They returned to the car, and directed the constable to take them next to the General Hospital, where all the casualties had been taken. Would they find anything there ?

Dalton had used his authority to help them again, and they were met by a senior Sister, an older efficient-looking woman, who seemed vaguely annoyed at being diverted from her usual duties. She greeted them briskly.

"I understand you are looking for one of the victims of last night's accident," she said. They nodded, and she continued. "Male, so Ward 6, men's surgical, is where they are." She led the way, and took them to the front desk of the ward. She picked up a list of names and showed it to them.

"No, none of those," said Doyle.

"Right," she said, "We still have several unidentified, - the last three beds on this side. Nurse will show you."

She handed the list to the nurse in charge, and stalked off, evidently deciding she had better things to do.

The nurse smiled apologetically at her visitors. "She's a bit of a dragon," she said, "But come this way."

She started down the ward. The first two of the beds the Sister had indicated had the curtains drawn round them, suggesting that these might be serious cases, but as she opened the curtains a little to let them look in, they found that one was a young coloured man, and the next was an elderly, grey-haired gentleman. They moved on. The man in the next bed was lying back on his pillows, his arm in a sling and a bandage round his head. He was the right sort of age and dark-haired, but it wasn't the one they were searching for. The nurse looked questioningly at them.

"No," they said, "He's not here."

"Of course," she said chattily, "there's still the one down in Assessment. They're waiting till he comes round, - to see if he's got concussion, and needs to be admitted. I was helping down there last night and saw him," she explained. "He's not badly hurt, and we're short of beds."

"What's he look like ?," asked Murphy eagerly.

"A bit dishy," she replied with a giggle, "Tall, dark and handsome."

"How do we get there ?," demanded Doyle urgently.

She gave them directions and they shot off as fast as they could, to find the Casualty and Assessment department. They entered in a rush and almost bumped into a young houseman in a white coat, clutching a clip-board.

Doyle all but accosted him. "We're looking for one of last night's casualties you've still got here," he exclaimed urgently.

"I was just going to have a look at him," said the young doctor. "Nurse said he was starting to wake up, - about time, too."

They followed the man as he pulled back the curtain of an alcove, struggling against the impulse to push past him. Murphy heard Doyle's sudden gasp as they saw the figure stretched out on the narrow bed, a large pad of cotton-wool taped to his forehead.

It was Bodie ! Without a doubt. Not yet awake, but very much alive, for they could see his steady breathing.

The doctor stepped forward and gently removed the dressing. Bodie stirred and batted feebly at his hand. The young man turned to the watching pair, and saw the look on their faces.

"Do you know him ?," he asked, rather unnecessarily.

"Yes," said Doyle, We've been searching for him, - he's one of ours."

"Well," said the medic, "That head injury's not too bad. He should wake up properly any minute."

He consulted his clip-board. "I've someone else to see. If he's all right when I come back, he can be discharged," he said as he left.

The two men moved quickly to stand either side of the already-stirring form of their friend. The dark eyes suddenly opened, looked disbelievingly from one face to the other, closed for a moment, then opened again.

"I don't believe it !," said Bodie, "A hundred miles from home, and still the cavalry turns up."

He struggled to sit up, and four hands shot out to help him. He was still wearing the turtle-neck sweater and dark trousers that Doyle remembered seeing him in the day before. And if Doyle's hand grasped the warm arm a little longer than necessary, who could blame him. The relief was immense after all the thoughts he'd been having on the drive up the M.1.

Bodie looked from one smiling face to the other. "I don't understand how it happened," he said, "But I've never been so glad to see your ugly mugs."

Then he added his usual complaint. "Have you got anything to eat ? I'm starving !."

The young doctor returned in time to hear their relieved laughter.

"Well," he demanded, "Is he rational ? Is he talking sense ?"

"As much as he ever does," replied Doyle with a grin.

"In that case he can be discharged," said the young man, "but he should be watched."

"Oh, we'll watch him," said Murphy, "and he'll go straight to our own doctor as soon as we're back home."

Satisfied, the doctor beckoned the nurse hovering behind him, to deal with the necessary paper-work. It didn't take long. Very soon the three were walking out to the waiting police car, and the young driver whisked them back to the police H.Q.

"We'd better thank Inspector Dalton before we set off," said Doyle, and all three followed the constable up the steps.

Somewhat to their surprise, the Inspector was just inside the door, clearly waiting for them. "Ah, I see you've found your man, - I am glad," he said.

Doyle offered his thanks for the help he had given them, but Dalton brushed them aside modestly.

"Glad to help," he said, "Now you mustn't rush off. I'm sure you could do with some refreshment before you start."

Doyle and Murphy were about to decline, but Bodie wasn't having that.

"I could," he said enthusiastically. "I last ate at yesterday lunchtime, and that was only a snack."

Dalton grinned, and led them down to the canteen. Bodie was soon tucking in to what was offered, while the others settled for coffee and biscuits. The Inspector joined them at the table, and smiled at them.

"Actually, I'm being a bit selfish, delaying you," he confessed, "I've heard such a lot about C.I.5, but I've never met any of its people before. I'm curious to hear more about what you do."

He was such a pleasant friendly man, that Doyle and Murphy found him easy to talk to, and explained something about the kind of work they did.

Doyle requested and received permission to make a call to London from the privacy of Dalton's office, and was conducted there. But when he found that Cowley was not in, he left a brief message with his secretary, merely saying they had found Bodie, and he was all right, and they were on their way back. No doubt the 'grapevine' would quickly spread that news.

At last they were ready to set off on the return journey, happier and more relaxed than the earlier one. Murphy took the wheel, as Doyle had driven on the first lap. Doyle slipped into the passenger seat, leaving Bodie to spread himself comfortably in the back.

As they settled themselves into place, Doyle got in a quick word. "Let's leave all the explanations till we get back to the boss," he said, "Or we'll only have to repeat it all again."

You're a devious one, Murphy thought to himself. He could see clearly what Doyle had done. He had avoided the question he didn't want to answer yet, the one where Bodie asked about Willis. And it had worked, for it wasn't long before Bodie dozed off, and slept most of the way home.

When they got back to Headquarters, Cowley still hadn't returned from his meeting, so there was time for Bodie to see their resident medical man. He was reluctant, protesting that he was fine, but the other two insisted. The doctor checked him over, gave him some pills for his headache, but discharged him, on condition that he came straight back if he began to feel any dizziness or blurred vision.

Cowley was now back, so they were summoned to his office. Waving them all to seats, he got straight down to business. "Tell us what happened to you, Bodie," he demanded.

"I had a call from Willis," Bodie began, "to say there was a lot of sudden activity at the Ealing warehouse. A big lorry, two smaller ones, and several vans had all turned up and gone inside. I told him I'd be straight over. Before he rang off he added that a big Mercedes had just arrived."

He looked towards his team-mate. "I was going to tell you," he said, "but you were busy talking to that official, so I decided I'd call when I got there, and could see what was going on."

"I wish you had," said Doyle, and got glared at by Cowley for interrupting.

"But when I got there, Willis wasn't there," continued Bodie. "I looked around for a bit, but couldn't find him, so I went back to the car to report."

He looked round his attentive audience, and went on. "But when I reached it they were waiting for me. I learnt later that they'd been tipped off that they were being watched. They forced me into the warehouse, and took my gun and my jacket with my I.D. They pushed me upstairs to the office. As we went I got a good view of all the vehicles, including the Mercedes."

Did you get its number ?," asked Murphy eagerly, "We could trace it."

"No need," said Bodie. "I met the owner in the office, - Giuseppe Giordano !"

This brought exclamations from his audience. The man was well known to them. They knew he was the mastermind behind a lot of the criminal activity happening in London. But he was one of those crafty villains who contrived to ensure that their name was never linked to what was going on.

"I suspect he was the elusive owner of the business whose name you were having a job to find," commented Doyle perceptively.

"Very likely," agreed Cowley, "Go on, Bodie."

"The lorries and vans were being loaded up with all sorts of stuff. I saw boxes of papers and files being piled into the vans. The fork-lift was moving crates into the lorries. I caught a glimpse of the numbers stencilled on some of them. Small arms, and rifles !."

"Ah," exclaimed Cowley, "I always suspected he was involved in some aspect of gun-running."

"Well, that's about it," said Bodie. "Soon after that, a convoy of vehicles began to move out. I was bundled into the back of a van with one of the 'heavies '. We'd been going for some hours, when I suddenly heard the van-driver yelling. Then there was an almighty crash, and the van toppled over. I was thrown against the back door, and I don't remember any more until I woke up in hospital, to see the ugly faces of these two," he finished with a grin. Doyle and Murphy smiled back at him. If he was in a teasing mood, there couldn't be much wrong with him.

But then came the question they'd been dreading. "What about Willis ? Did you find him ?."

Cowley wasn't one to shirk his unpleasant task. "Yes," he said, "They found him when they searched the warehouse. He'd been shot. I'm afraid he didn't make it."

Bodie's cheerful mood was instantly gone, and his face was grim. Then he put another question. "How did you find me ?," he asked.

Doyle took up the explanation. "We guessed where you'd gone, over to Ealing," he said, "and when you didn't call in or answer your phone, we took a team there. But it looked as if they'd already cleared out, so we went in to search the place. We found your car. They'd brought it into the warehouse, to hide it, no doubt."

He continued quietly. "We found Willis in one of the storerooms. I could see he was in a bad way, but he did come to, just long enough to say three words, 'Sylvester, Bodie and North.' At first I thought North was perhaps another name, the owner's maybe. But then I remembered that you said they had another warehouse in Liverpool, and I realised it could be a direction instead, and that maybe he was trying to tell me that was where they were going."

He paused, thinking about the restless night he'd spent after their exhaustive but fruitless searching.

"In the morning, when I heard about the huge pile-up on the M.1," said Doyle a little diffidently, "I had a sudden hunch."

"And I let him follow it up," interposed Cowley, "He's been right several times before."

"And he was right again," said Murphy in a satisfied tone.

"We tried the morgue first, and then the hospital," said Doyle. "I thought we'd drawn a blank, till the nurse told me about you."

Bodie smiled to himself. He appreciated the hours of concern his friends must have gone through, especially Doyle.

"Well, what do we do now, ?" he demanded.

"There's not a lot we can do," said Cowley thoughtfully.

"But they killed Willis," protested Bodie.

"We know that," agreed Cowley, "but how could we prove it.?."

Doyle had a sudden thought. "What about the vehicles in the crash ?," he suggested. "Was there anything incriminating in them ?."

"I asked about that," said Murphy. "The lorry was one of the smaller ones. It was badly damaged and burnt out. They reckoned it had had boxes of account books, ledgers and papers, but there was nothing retrievable."

"And the van only held me and one of the gang," put in Bodie. "I heard them call him Sam."

"Yes, Sam Stedman," confirmed Murphy. "We saw him in the morgue."

"So the rest of the convoy got through," said Bodie bitterly, "either before or after the crash."

Cowley took charge of the situation. "All I can do," he declared, "is to alert the Liverpool police to keep an eye on the warehouse up there. But I suspect the gang will be very circumspect for a while, since they know of our interest and involvement. I'm afraid we'll just have to play the waiting game again."

And that is how it turned out. The Liverpool police, alerted by Cowley, with his authority as head of C.I.5, kept a careful watch on the local warehouse, trading as Sylvester & Co. They made frequent spot-checks on their vehicles, but found nothing irregular in any of them. They had the number of Giordano's Mercedes, but saw no sign of it. Not surprising, for the canny man had driven it back to London the following day, and put it under wraps in a lock-up garage. For a couple of weeks he'd managed with a borrowed car, and kept a low profile, waiting for the heat to die down.

Bodie suffered no ill effects, and was quickly back on duty. It still rankled bitterly with all of them that they'd been able to go no further with regard to Giordano. They knew that, even if he hadn't actually fired the gun himself, he was responsible for the death of Willis. And they were equally sure that, but for the unforeseen accident, something similar would have happened to Bodie.

The breakthrough didn't come till several weeks later.

Cowley had been to a protracted and exhausting meeting, and hadn't got home till after 10 o'clock. He'd written up some difficult notes, had a shower, and was now relaxing, deservedly, with a stiff whisky before retiring. So he was not best pleased when his phone rang. He lifted the receiver, to find it was the night-duty operator from his Headquarters.

"This had better be important ," he growled.

"Oh, it is, sir," replied the operator. "It's Peters, I'll put him through."

Peters, thought Cowley to himself, an up and coming young operative according to Doyle, but what can he want at this time of night.

He almost barked at the man when the line was opened. "Well, Peters," he said rather crossly, "What is it ?"

"Please let me explain, sir," said the youngster, a bit taken aback by the brusqueness. "It is vitally important, I think."

"Go on then," snapped Cowley, "I'm listening."

"I was on my way home from visiting my aunt and uncle," began Peters. "I was just near to Ealing Broadway when I spotted a van with the Sylvester & co. logo. I decided to follow it, and found it was making in the direction of the old Sylvester warehouse."

Cowley's attention was now completely aroused. "Continue," he urged briskly.

"I shot round the back streets, and went to our old vantage point, and sure enough that was where the van was heading. I watched it pull into the yard. One of the big lorries was already waiting there. The van man evidently had the key, for he opened up the big doors and they both drove in. Just as I started to call in, there was another arrival, the big black Mercedes. So Giordano is here as well."

"Brilliant !," exclaimed Cowley. "Great work, Peters."

His mind was now racing, all tiredness forgotten, as he made plans. He had some calls to make. But first he gave his instructions to the eager young man who'd done so well. "Peters," he ordered, "Stay watching. On no account take any action on your own. I'll mobilise some squads, and we'll be there as fast as we can. Report any change, but don't go in. Understood ?."

"Yes, sir," said Peters at once.

As Cowley hurriedly dressed again, he set about calling up his teams, and the efficient staff at base swung into action, ringing operatives urgently.

Doyle was caught just getting out of the shower, and dripped all across his bedroom floor, as he dashed for his phone.

Bodie was harder to find, and had to be roused from the bed of a certain young lady, but as soon as he was told what was afoot, he was up and away at the double.

Peters reported again to Cowley, saying that there were no lights showing at the warehouse, but he'd definitely seen them all go in there.

Cowley relayed this to Bodie and Doyle, who decided that since the gang were clearly trying to avoid attention, it would be worth the risk to take the cars right into the yard, almost up to the doors. This would also foil any attempt to make a run for it.

So before long, several cars, using only side lights and low speed, crept into the deserted yard, and the group of men assembled. During the previous search, a side door had been found a few yards along from the big main ones, and it was decided to use this, in case opening the big doors gave a warning sound to those inside.

It yielded easily to a skeleton key, and one by one, the C.I 5 men eased silently inside and spread out. It was almost pitch black inside the huge space, apart from over by the unloading platform, where they could see the lights of several torches moving about, showing something was going on there.

Peters had come down from his vantage point to join them, and because he had found it last time, he had been given the job of locating the main light switch.

He was soon in position, and at a whispered "Now" from Doyle, snapped the switch on. The powerful lights came on and illuminated the whole scene.

And what was revealed ?

Over by the loading platform stood the big lorry with its doors wide open. Beside it was the fork-lift, and half-a-dozen small crates, just unloaded. Close to the vehicle were four men, two lorry-drivers, one van man, and Giordano !

But that was not all. Beyond the crates stood a group of people, Eastern European by the style of their dress, looking very startled and apprehensive.!

What Giordano and his men saw, was a spread-out line of men advancing towards them, and all with guns steady in their hands, pointing at them. The three drivers decided instantly that resistance was futile, and shot their hands high in the air in surrender.

Giordano, however, backing away towards his car, recognised the two men leading the ever-nearing force. "You !," he yelled at Bodie. "I thought I'd got rid of you."

He turned to Doyle. "I know you too," he exclaimed. "You broke up one of my best drug rings."

With his excitable Italian background, the man was almost incandescent with rage. Caught in the act like this, he could see the end of his lucrative reign. He drew a gun from inside his jacket and waved it wildly.

But the C.I.5 men held off. They had strict orders from Cowley, that Giordano was to be taken alive. He himself was now waiting outside, with a force of police. They would follow in, if his men informed him that there was firm evidence of criminal activity, enough to secure a conviction this time. The police would complete the arrest. Cowley didn't want any chance of the man evading them and getting his clever lawyers to wriggle him out of trouble.

A few yards apart, Doyle and Bodie advanced steadily towards Giordano, their guns held steadily aimed. They were ready to act swiftly, as soon as the man lost it enough to fire at them, as they were sure he would, - he was so out of control.

Doyle tensed. A few steps more and the man would bump into his car, so action was imminent. He focussed ahead, trying to maintain firm eye contact with the unpredictable man before him.

Suddenly the intense silence was broken by the loud wailing cry of a baby !

Doyle's concentration flickered for just a moment. Two shots rang out, echoing in the high rafters. Doyle's took Giordano high in the shoulder, causing him to drop his gun, and stagger back against his big Mercedes, while the other whistled past him, uncomfortably close.

The sound was sufficient signal for Cowley and the police to rush in, to do their job and arrest the four men, so obviously caught in the act of smuggling in illegal immigrants.

Bodie stepped up to his team-mate's side. His fingers reached out to flick the fibres sticking out from a neat slit at the top of the jacket's sleeve. "What's this ?," he joked. "Moths ?."

"I was distracted," said Doyle. "I didn't move fast enough."

"I seem to remember someone telling me you shouldn't let yourself be distracted,- it was dangerous."

"Touche," admitted Doyle. Then he came back with a quick riposte, "but it just shows I was right, doesn't it ?."

He peered down at the neat slit, trying to assess the damage. "It's my favourite jacket," he complained. "It'll cost a bit to repair."

"You could try claiming it on expenses," suggested Bodie with a grin.

"Not a chance," said Doyle. "He'd never pass that."

"Well, let's go and clear up this mess," said his mate, "Then perhaps we can claim overtime for loss of beauty sleep, called on duty at this hour of night."

"But you weren't sleeping," teased Doyle.

"Aye," said a voice behind them, "And there's no way you could claim for loss of what you were up to, Bodie."

Cowley hurried past them, with a police Inspector hard on his heels.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged grins. The fact that their usually dour boss had essayed a humorous remark, told them that he was very pleased with the success of this evening's work.

Giordano was not going to get away this time, so Cowley was a happy man.!


End file.
